𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. ⁽⁽⁽ᵗʰᵉ ¹⁹⁷⁵ ᵒⁿᵉˢʰᵒᵗˢ⁾⁾⁾

love / paranoia.

a bit masochistic, this one. OFC and matty see each other casually, and although it's just physical, there's something beautiful and pure about their encounters. oh, and if you ever want to go to a cocktail bar like this, it's Three Sheets in Dalston x

I get through three cigarettes and spot two serial pickpockets by the time Matty finds me at the entrance to St Pancras, wrapped up in a fuzzy black coat with a hood that blends in with his wild curls. They're becoming unkempt, but it's a look he pulls off easily.

'Hi, love,' he greets me smoothly, flinging an arm around me and surreptitiously kissing me, once on the cheek and then on my mouth. His delicate features are tipped with cold from the wind. 'Hope you haven't been waiting long.'

'Not really,' I shrug. I could tell him the truth, that I've waited for twenty minutes and my toes are almost numb because my boots apparently don't keep heat in or cold out, but I don't want to ruin the moment. I follow him into a black cab, and on the ride to Dalston he asks me thoughtful questions about my work, which is as tenuous as ever, though I try to play this down.

He lights two cigarettes in his mouth and hands one to me. I've thought about this more than I want to admit, envisioning how I'll feel when I see him again. Each time the anticipation stirs me up so much I feel nauseous, but as soon as I hear his voice, his gaze locking onto mine, everything feels so easy again. I'm a good actor. I give a good performance, at least until we've both drunk enough to loosen our tongues and I begin to confess why I love these evenings so much, which I'm sure fluffs his ego plenty, but he says delicious things to me, right before he kisses me, so that when we kiss properly at last it seems to taste like a reward: the sugary kind.

The bar is tiny, discreet and fairly classy, even for East London - the sort of place that doesn't feel busy even when it's at full capacity. He always chooses the best places. I inspect the stiff card of the cocktail list, and watch as a waiter lays napkins down, pours crisp, cold water that forms condensation as soon as it hits the small glasses. Matty orders for us both.

His calf lays comfortably against mine in our cramped position, the dim light illuminating his face just enough that I can see he's freshly shaven, his jaw as soft as mine. I would have noticed this when he greeted me, if I hadn't been buzzing quite so much. A police siren wails from Kingsland Road, the blue flash flitting through the glass of the window and making his dark eyes gleam.

He's calm and self-possessed tonight, a far cry from the manic character I first met in a sweltering French festival field, buzzing from playing a show to only a moderate crowd. I had followed an on-off boyfriend there, a drummer for another band who blew me off halfway through the weekend. My boredom encountered Matty's euphoria come-down, and within an hour we were fumbling with each other's underwear in a dubiously lockable trailer.

I think he was pleased to find a British girl at the festival. The French girls probably thought they could do better, and perhaps they were right, but there was something ridiculous and magnetic about him. I expected absolutely nothing from him except an orgasm, and so when he called me from a cafe in London two months later to ask if I was free for coffee, I was surprised but gratified. Somehow, once sat opposite him in Grind, and with the full force of his charm turned on me, ambivalence turned into favouritism.

We have an understanding, and it works well. He either can't or won't hold down a relationship, and I'm tired of making judgement calls every time I hook up with someone. So when he's in town, he gets in touch, and we decide: his or mine.

This time it's his.

***

'More?' Matty asks, breathless in my ear.

'Yeah,' I gasp, my grip on the sheets tightening as his hips roll into mine with a greater force. All I can feel is the soft, smooth skin of his torso between my thighs, his hair tickling my cheek. He touches the innermost part of me and makes it glow hotly, drawing guttural sounds of pleasure from my lungs.

'Look at me.' He cups my face in his hand, his thumb pressing into my cheek, and I turn my face up towards him. The first time he insisted on this I thought it unusual for a guy who only wanted casual sex. But casual and sex don't go together in the usual way for Matty. Fucking him is like a brief commitment to a higher power, and I sometimes wonder afterwards if it's been obvious that I'm desperate for the kind of intimacy he provides. But if I have, he doesn't hold it against me, and besides, it's me he wants to see every time. I don't know if there are others, and yet I suspect there aren't, not in this city at least.

Nine times out of ten, Matty initiates our meetings. If I'm eager to dramatically throw off social defences each time, then he's even more so. He tells me about the thoughts that come to him in his bunk when he's away; we swap confessions of the things we know we shouldn't or don't want to feel, and reassure one another when everything else seems up in the air, intangible or pointless. Work has dried up, and I've tried my hand at everything from set design to creative copywriting. I like that he doesn't tell me it's 'a natural symptom of youth', the 'confusion everyone feels' (to quote other friends). He validates my experience. He knows how it helps to have a driving focus, at the cost of all else, even.

So I welcome his gaze in bed and the moment of unspoken exchange. When it gets really good, sometimes I even wonder if he's getting emotional. His eyes get glossier, his face twists like he's entreating with me for something. I give him everything I can. I give him what I don't want to give anyone else right now, because it feels safe with him. Like I said, I don't expect anything more.

'I want you to come,' Matty urges me.

'How badly do you want it?' I cradle his head in my hands, twisting the black curls so they erupt from between my knuckles. His breath comes in quick puffs against my neck, and in response, he pulls me into him sharply, groaning with renewed pleasure.

The orgasm makes me forget I'm lying on a bed in an upstairs room somewhere in Hackney. For a few moments, I'm not entirely sure I exist, until the ecstasy subsides at last, and sensation comes crashing down around my ears.

***

While I smoke a cigarette slowly in the balcony doorway, a long, low cloud hovers above the towers opposite. It appears lilac, illuminated by the glow of streetlights and traffic below, but behind it the night sky is an inky blue. I can even make out the stars tonight.

The bathroom door whines quietly as it opens and closes, and I don't need to turn back to know that Matty has approached behind me. Wordlessly, I pass him the cigarette, admiring the way the lamp by the bed casts soft shadows over one side of his face. I feel a little bit like I'm recovering from the display of vulnerability in fucking him this evening, slowly gaining back composure, but he holds knowledge of me in his eye every time he looks in my direction. I don't think I shall ever quite forget that whenever our gazes meet. He never had an innocent gaze, anyway. I didn't stand a chance.